every damn day. William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Bertolt Brecht, Dashiell Hammett, and Thomas Mann are all working on screenplays for studios.”
I risked another glance at Laura but couldn’t read her expression. “But…”
Red-faced, he clenched his fist. I braced myself as he raised it to pound on his desk. He caught himself then scanned the room. “I’d like a few minutes alone with Mr. Donovan.”
The door burst open and Eric entered, knocking over a coatrack that clattered to the wood floor. “Hope I’m not too late.” He studied the faces on the couch. Ignoring me, he leaned across the desk to his father. “I get what’s happening here. You can’t do this! I came up with the story idea. I understand my characters better than anyone.”
“Perhaps you’re too close to the script to be objective.” His grin turned into a snort of laughter. “What happened to your face? You fall down the stairs?”
“Donovan slugged me. He started it.”
“I did not!”
Laura jumped to her feet. “Jake!”
Todd and Eric talked over each other while Laura stared at me in disbelief.
Norman chuckled. “That looks like more than one punch.”
The only person in the room who mattered was Laura, but I couldn’t explain to her what happened in front of everyone.
Norman slammed his palms on his desktop. “I’ve made my decision, now everyone out.”
Eric stuttered. “But…but…”
“I think I should stay,” Todd told his father.
“Out,
everyone
!”
As I rose to leave, Norman pointed to the chair. “Not you, Donovan.”
When everyone left, the room grew as quiet as a library. The old man pulled another glass from his desk and tossed in another shot of scotch. He leaned back and swallowed. “Let me tell you how I got my start in this business. Forty years ago, 1893, to be exact, a friend offered me a job as a cameraman. Moving pictures had become the rage, and I jumped at the chance. In those days, each film had one camera operator and a director who worked with a…ever hear of the term
scenarist
?”
That was a new one to me. I shook my head.
“The scenarist, usually a vaudeville performer experienced at slapstick, worked with the director to come up with an entertaining, usually humorous, scene or scenes. A good scenarist was more important to studios than authors. A movie didn’t need a screenplay. There was no dialogue.”
“Makes sense.”
“In twenty years I went from cameraman to heading my own studio. Because of my background, I run things differently than most executives. I involve myself with each film, and although I haven’t directed in years, I still stop by and offer advice.”
I considered Laura’s future after the old man was gone. I pictured his two sons and tried not to let my personal feelings interfere with my thoughts. Eric, with all his flaws, at least shared his father’s love for making movies. Decisions in a Todd Carville studio would be based on the almighty buck.
The old man drank half the scotch. “Talking pictures have been around longer than people realize, but most studio hotshots, including me, thought synchronized sound was a gimmick. Six years ago,
The Jazz Singer
ended that kind of talk. Overnight, studios needed actors with theatrical experience instead of mimes, and screenplays with rich characters and engaging stories. Careers crashed. Others flourished.”
The studio head grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet. He shuffled to a wall with a collection of photographs. He paused to study them. They appeared to chronicle the studio’s history.
If I gave him the benefit of the doubt, I believed half of what he said. Men like him didn’t make it in this business just on vision and talent. He had climbed to the top on the shattered dreams and ruined careers of others with vision and talent. That was how a chump like Norman Carville created a movie empire.
He turned and leaned on his cane. “I’ll be frank, Mr. Donovan. Carville Studios is
I risked another glance at Laura but couldn’t read her expression. “But…”
Red-faced, he clenched his fist. I braced myself as he raised it to pound on his desk. He caught himself then scanned the room. “I’d like a few minutes alone with Mr. Donovan.”
The door burst open and Eric entered, knocking over a coatrack that clattered to the wood floor. “Hope I’m not too late.” He studied the faces on the couch. Ignoring me, he leaned across the desk to his father. “I get what’s happening here. You can’t do this! I came up with the story idea. I understand my characters better than anyone.”
“Perhaps you’re too close to the script to be objective.” His grin turned into a snort of laughter. “What happened to your face? You fall down the stairs?”
“Donovan slugged me. He started it.”
“I did not!”
Laura jumped to her feet. “Jake!”
Todd and Eric talked over each other while Laura stared at me in disbelief.
Norman chuckled. “That looks like more than one punch.”
The only person in the room who mattered was Laura, but I couldn’t explain to her what happened in front of everyone.
Norman slammed his palms on his desktop. “I’ve made my decision, now everyone out.”
Eric stuttered. “But…but…”
“I think I should stay,” Todd told his father.
“Out,
everyone
!”
As I rose to leave, Norman pointed to the chair. “Not you, Donovan.”
When everyone left, the room grew as quiet as a library. The old man pulled another glass from his desk and tossed in another shot of scotch. He leaned back and swallowed. “Let me tell you how I got my start in this business. Forty years ago, 1893, to be exact, a friend offered me a job as a cameraman. Moving pictures had become the rage, and I jumped at the chance. In those days, each film had one camera operator and a director who worked with a…ever hear of the term
scenarist
?”
That was a new one to me. I shook my head.
“The scenarist, usually a vaudeville performer experienced at slapstick, worked with the director to come up with an entertaining, usually humorous, scene or scenes. A good scenarist was more important to studios than authors. A movie didn’t need a screenplay. There was no dialogue.”
“Makes sense.”
“In twenty years I went from cameraman to heading my own studio. Because of my background, I run things differently than most executives. I involve myself with each film, and although I haven’t directed in years, I still stop by and offer advice.”
I considered Laura’s future after the old man was gone. I pictured his two sons and tried not to let my personal feelings interfere with my thoughts. Eric, with all his flaws, at least shared his father’s love for making movies. Decisions in a Todd Carville studio would be based on the almighty buck.
The old man drank half the scotch. “Talking pictures have been around longer than people realize, but most studio hotshots, including me, thought synchronized sound was a gimmick. Six years ago,
The Jazz Singer
ended that kind of talk. Overnight, studios needed actors with theatrical experience instead of mimes, and screenplays with rich characters and engaging stories. Careers crashed. Others flourished.”
The studio head grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet. He shuffled to a wall with a collection of photographs. He paused to study them. They appeared to chronicle the studio’s history.
If I gave him the benefit of the doubt, I believed half of what he said. Men like him didn’t make it in this business just on vision and talent. He had climbed to the top on the shattered dreams and ruined careers of others with vision and talent. That was how a chump like Norman Carville created a movie empire.
He turned and leaned on his cane. “I’ll be frank, Mr. Donovan. Carville Studios is
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